


No Matter What

by Irascible Jones (The_Fall_of_Water)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Choices, Dalish Elves, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff, Het, Magic, Non-Explicit, Old Gods (Dragon Age), Romance, The Fade, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 10:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fall_of_Water/pseuds/Irascible%20Jones
Summary: On the eve of the battle of Denerim, a choice must be made.The apostate, Morrigan, proposes a plan that could save them both.But could that choice divide them forever?*An earlier version of this work has been published before on Ao3 under a different Pseud*
Relationships: Alistair/Female Mahariel (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Mahariel, Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 1





	1. A Fireside Visit

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Redcliffe before the final march to Denerim, Dragon Age Origins.  
Assumes the Warden did not try to find Morrigan in Witch Hunt.  


The Warden sat slouched on the bench at the foot of the bed, one boot half off, staring incredulously at Morrigan. 

It had been a long day...a long...just a long  _ everything _ . The fire in her hearth was merrily cackling away to itself, and there was the promise of a bed in her near future. That was before the conversation she and Alistair had just had with Riordan. All she really wanted to do right now was sink into some kind of mindless nothingness for the next few hours, as if somehow that was going to help her come to terms with imminent mortality for one of them.

Instead, likely fuelled by a self interest that was not readily apparent, Morrigan was standing at her fireside with a proposal that was as much ludicrous as it was tempting. The things one does, or considers doing when the stakes are high enough.

“I’m...I’m sorry, you’re going to have to run that by me again.” the Warden stuttered, blinking slightly. She could not possibly have heard Morrigan correctly. “I think I misheard you.”

Morrigan made a visible effort not to roll her eyes, settling instead for an annoyed sigh.

“Really, Warden. It would help if…”

“I do have a name, Morrigan,” she interrupted mildly, “can you please use it.” As if it was something she had not said many times in the past. There was slight edge in her tone, however, which had not been there before. 

She put up with being called  _ “Warden” _ by every human, dwarf, elf and...their dog as the Shemlin saying went. But she preferred the company to use her name...Shale notwithstanding...everyone was always going to be  _ “it” _ to Shale.

Morrigan frowned at her...and unexpectedly acquiesced.

“Very well, Aoife.” That got her a surprised tilt of the head, a peculiarly Dalish gesture much akin to a human eyebrow raise.

Morrigan began again. The explanation was certainly less convoluted than it could have been, the intricacies of ritual manipulation of matter and substance were surplus to requirements. But overall, Morrigan didn’t consider it a concept too hard to grasp...was it? 

Travelling with the Wardens and the ever expanding company of tag-alongs that they kept had been an education for Morrigan, although she would never have admitted as such. Her life, up to the point she had been summarily thrust into proceedings in response to the Blight, had been close to solitary, having no one to please but herself, and her mother. Must not forget mother, the reason she was actually here, having this conversation with an extremely weary, demoralised and very close to resigned warden.

As much as she hated the thought, the...companionship (she would not call it friendship) of the company, even though she could not say she was close to any of them (particularly  _ not _ Alistair), was probably the one thing that Flemeth had underestimated. Without them, Morrigan would have completed the mission that had been given her and done exactly what was required of her, probably with some misgiving and snarkiness, but without questioning what her mother’s true motives were. 

But being part of the company had given her insights into many things, the least of which was a glimpse into Flemeth’s long term designs. The path Morrigan now planned to take was as much a result of the company’s influence on her, as her own wild spirit.

“Morrigan, can I be blunt with you?” it was a bit of redundant question. After having it explained to her again, Aoife doubted she could be anything  _ but _ blunt with Morrigan...she had  _ not _ misheard the first time.

“Of course. I prefer it.” It saved a lot of misunderstanding.

“At any point in proceedings up to now, were you planning on telling either Alistair or myself how the killing the Archdemon was going to play out?” Aoife shuffled the half loose boot off her foot. “I only ask, since you clearly know  _ exactly _ how it’s going to play out.”

Morrigan blinked slowly, and sighed again. “Well aside from the fact that I assumed  _ you _ knew; neither of you asked!” Wasn’t this all beside the point anyway.

Morrigan’s flippancy was grating at the best of times. This was not the best of times. After pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose for a few seconds, Aoife decided to just let that go.

“Fine...ok, we’ll let that one pass.” She looked up at the apostate again. “So my next question has to be, what’s in this for you?” 

Sometimes Morrigan forgot that this Warden was not all sunshine and naivety, despite the reasonably high moral code she seemed to live by. It was very easy to assume that in the game of spinning her a line, Aoife wasn’t going to see the cracks.

“I merely want to give life and opportunity to an elder god, uncorrupted by taint and the dark-spawn.” There  _ was _ more to it than that, most of which Morrigan didn’t quite have her head around yet, or even, if she was honest, know  _ at all _ . 

Aoife didn’t look convinced.

“And, what? Riordan, Alistair and I being able to walk out unscathed is just a lucky coincidence?” With the prospect of hope being offered by Morrigan, parcelled with deeply unsettling consequences, Aoife passed from being blunt over to caustic. 

“Call it a perk.” Morrigan shot back. She thought she had read the situation correctly, that leading with a way to save all their lives would be the best. Perhaps she should not have used the word child…

There was an extended silence. A log in the fire cracked audibly and Aoife shook her head gently before turning back to remove her other boot. The decision wasn’t hers to make, and the burden not hers to bear.

“Ok, so why are you talking to me? I’m not exactly physically capable of participating in your plan, so…” A wriggling tug, and the other boot was off, “...I’m not the person you need to convince.” She massaged her aching foot with one hand, and looked back up at Morrigan. “Riordan’s billetted down near the hall as far as I know.” 

That should have been the end of the conversation. 

Of course it wasn’t.

“Riordan...has been too long a Grey Warden,” Morrigan chose her words carefully, “...the taint is not fresh enough in him...and he’s unlikely to agree to this plan in any case.”

Aoife blinked at her in response a great many times as the meaning of Morrigan’s words worked their way through her mind.

And then something happened that Morrigan did not expect. 

Aoife laughed. 

An unexpectedly loud bark of merriment that quickly dissolved into consistent peals of laughter...possibly bordering on hysteria. 

“Wait...wait…” the laugher slowly subsided, giving way to a deeply amused smile and faint panic around the eyes, “So, let me get this right. You want to make a  _ vessel _ , if we’re apparently calling a baby that, to house the soul of the arch-demon as it leaves the dragon’s body and claws its way into yours instead of one of ours. General upshot being whoever kills the dragon doesn’t die horribly as a result. To do this, you want  _ Alistair _ to be the…” Aoife was a little lost in incredulity and couldn’t quite find the word…

“Donor.” Morrigan supplied with a wry grin.

“And you think  _ Riordan _ is the one who is unlikely to agree to this plan?!?!” Aoife was  _ certain _ Alistair would rather cut his own head off than agree to be in the same bed with Morrigan (or at least cut Morrigan’s head off); much less father a child.

“Which is why I need  _ you _ to convince him.” Morrigan tried hard not to sound like she was talking to a lackwit. Really, what was so difficult to understand? 

“I don’t think I can be  _ that _ convincing, Morrigan.” there was still strained amusement in Aoife’s voice, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Alistair is as far from disposed to being in your physical presence as it is possible to be.” 

“And in case  _ you _ hadn’t noticed,” Morrigan replied, ”which I’m more than certain you have; Alistair would walk naked through the halls of Orzammar singing obscenities at the dwarves if you asked him to.”

All the merriment retreated from Aoife’s face. 

“You think it is not obvious?” Morrigan continued, a little heated. “Finding comfort in the arms of a travelling companion is one thing, and doubtless many of the dullards in our company see it as merely that. But I am not so unskilled at seeing what lies beneath the surface.” 

“Morrigan…” there was a warning note in Aoife’s voice. She and Alistair had not set out to be secretive, but nor had she thought they were being overt.

“His eyes follow you, in a revolting puppy-like manner, when he believes no one is looking; and the thunderous expression that crosses his face when you converse with Zevran, who takes great pleasure in openly undressing you with his gaze in public…” Morrigan hesitated, perhaps she was going too far, “Unless I am very much mistaken, Alistair has been in love with you for quite some time. And, although I am not well versed in reading the subtleties of elven-kind, I would think that you feel very much the same.”

“That is enough.” All sense of the ludicrous and weary carelessness had withdrawn behind a rapidly cooling wall of displeasure. 

Morrigan could not, however, help herself.

“A good thing, then, that Alistair is  _ not _ to be King. For I do not think he would take well to the Chantry inevitably refusing to allow him to make you his queen.” She laughed derisively as she spoke this last comment, her own scorn of the Chantry quite clear.

Aoife stood. The sudden movement caught Morrigan slightly off-guard and her hand shot out with a defensive spell at the ready. The conversation had become far more complicated than she had intended, and although she had little doubt she could best the Warden if it came to it, she would much prefer not to. 

Aoife’s jaw worked slowly. When her words did come, they were calm and controlled, her shoulders relaxed as she left off the warring stance and sought to ease tension.

“Regardless of what Alistair and I  _ may _ or  _ may not _ feel for each other, I will not persuade him to do something he will not wish…” She paused at her own assumption and corrected, “is highly  _ unlikely _ to wish to do.” 

The words came out of her mouth, but in the back of her mind, there was a persistent nagging. What if they  _ could _ all be saved? What if this was the only hope she and Alistair had of finding a life together after the Blight. 

Morrigan relaxed her stance in turn, recognising that she had over-stepped, that this conversation had not gone well.

“Then you’d best hope Riordan is capable of making that final blow,” She said softly, “because I have little doubt that if it were to come down to the two of you, Alistair will be the one spending the rest of his life without the woman he loves.” 

She began to take her leave, and contemplate how best to now proceed. There was always an outside chance that the plan could work with Riordan. Aoife was right, she would have more of a chance convincing Riordan than Alistair...a very slim chance, but definitely more of one.

In the distance between moments, Aoife’s mind swung back and forth between two poles. 

No. It was too much to ask. Alistair did not give of himself easily, it had taken months for him to confess his honest feelings to her. He had been raised by nobles and the Chantry. He had certain ideas about love and…that which he was uncomfortable calling sex if he could find another innocuous euphemism for it. 

Damn it! 

This  _ one _ spark of hope was not enough to make her persuade him to do it, but nor was it enough to deny him the opportunity to make the choice himself. 

“Wait.” Morrigan halted and turned her gaze back to the warden. “I will not use my influence with him to persuade him to do this against his will…” She began.

“Then I have no more need to be in this room…” Morrigan made to leave again.

“But! I will also not make the choice for him.” Aoife hurriedly finished.

Now it was Morrigan’s turn to snort incredulously. “Alistair is as capable of making an important a decision as this as he is of tying his own shoelaces.” The mage replied harshly.

“You underestimate him.” Perhaps the defensive feelings of a lover, but there  _ was _ more depth to Alistair than Morrigan knew.

“Yes. Of course, because why would he  _ ever _ want to make any kind of choice that can be palmed off on another, or to have to think more than a week ahead.” Morrigan waved away her argument with one hand as if it were an errant mayfly.

“He chose to be a Grey Warden, Morrigan. A choice that he knew was going to be forever, and one which would eventually kill him one way or another. I’d say that was fairly important decision, wouldn’t you?” Aoife countered, the edge back in her voice.

Morrigan pursed her lips in response, but said nothing.

“I can’t make a choice for him, and I won’t force him to make the choice that you want.” Aoife continued.

“So what do you propose then?” Morrigan settled back on her heels as she posed the question. There was as much at stake here for Morrigan as there was for the two wardens. They both knew it, even if they weren’t going to acknowledge that.

“You will explain this to him, exactly as you explained it to me.” Morrigan looked dubious. “All of it, Morrigan.”

“You said yourself that he is hardly to be convinced,” the skepticism in her voice was clear. “I do not think that will have the desired outcome.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s his body, so it’s his choice.” Aoife was not going to brook further argument.

Morrigan considered her options. This wasn’t a great one, but none of the options she had were particularly good. 

“Very well then,” Morrigan stepped aside and took a seat by the fire, “if  _ you _ can at least convince him to be in the same room with me,  _ I  _ will try to convince him that this is a good idea.”


	2. The Agreement

Arl Eamon had housed them in the family wing of Redcliffe castle. His own apartments occupied the South end, the Northern rooms was held for Bann Teagan and the sparse household he had with him. Having Alistair close made sense to Aoife (Eamon did seem determined to make a King out of Maric’s bastard son, despite Alistair’s very public renunciation of any desire to be enthroned) but did not know why _ she _ had been accorded such consideration, not when Riordan, the senior warden, had been relegated to one of the lesser guest rooms on the ground floor.

Alistair’s door was slightly ajar, she knocked and took noise from within as permission to enter. 

He had divested himself of most of the heavy plate, which was currently leaving marks on an upholstered bench near the wall, and his short blonde locks released from the confines of his helmet, were tousled in all directions. He tossed the pauldron over on top of the rest of the plate, and, because it was Alistair, the entire pile of armour chose that moment to slide noisily and unceremoniously off the bench and clatter to the floor.

“Ah. Well. Damn.” He winced as each piece fell. Standing there in his sweat stained gambeson he glanced over to see who had just witnessed this remarkably loud and inconvenient armorial avalanche. 

The smile that blossomed over his face on seeing her, changing his expression completely, made her breath hitch. The temptation to talk him into this crazy plan if only to see that smile every day for the rest of her life was almost overwhelming.

“I was just going to come and find you.” He murmured, covering the distance between them in three easy steps. She brought a gloved hand up to caress his cheek as he enfolded her in his arms and leaned down into a kiss. 

Despite the awkwardness of their early encounters, there was a growing physical self-assurance in Alistair that Aoife found herself reflecting and giving back in turn. They enjoyed each other, and not merely in the physical sense. They kept company well together, fought well together; had they not chosen to pursue an intimate connection, they would still be remarkably well matched.

She gently parted her lips from his, and Alistair nuzzled against her ear, the slight graze of his unshaven cheek rubbing over hers. “You only managed to get your boots off before finding my door?” He teased gently, nudging her bare toes with his own.

Aoife snorted a laugh, and slapped him on the backside with her other hand. She felt him grin through the line of small kisses he was making down her neck. He had figured out very early in their liaison that any attention paid to her neck was bound to make her shiver. 

He would continue like this, eventually finding his way back up over her chin or other cheek, searching for her mouth again. For a man who had never “licked a lamp-post” before meeting her, he was a remarkably quick study in what made her legs tremble.

This was in danger of going on for a while. His hands had already found the leather buckles keeping her drakescale in place, and she was unconsciously releasing the ties of his gambeson. As expected, he had found his way back to her mouth, his kisses becoming deeper and more insistent. If things continued in this vein, there would presently be nothing between them but undergarments; and shortly thereafter, not even that.

The thought of intimacy brought back the image of Morrigan waiting by the fire in her rooms, and the matter to be put to Alistair. It was enough to bring her up for air and douse her ardour. 

He felt the sudden change and stopped. His cheeks were adorably flushed as he pulled back, worry lines furrowing his brow.

“Everything all right, love?”

Aoife made a slightly strangled sound of irritation, eliciting a raised eyebrow from her paramour.

“I’m going to say not, then. Is it…you know…about the archdemon?” He brushed a calloused thumb across her jaw, and she would have given anything to just forget Riordan and Morrigan, forget the archdemon, the taint and even the Blight. Forget it all and just fall into Alistair and whatever stolen moments of bliss they could pull from this mess while time remained. She leaned her cheek into his touch and sighed, infuriated by her own practicality.

“Yes, partially. I had a visitor when I got back to my room.” She continued to untie his gambeson, but there was no longer any intimacy in it. She registered a look of confusion on his face.

“Ah…an interesting visitor?” He asked, taking over responsibility for his own clothing so he wasn’t tempted to keep removing hers. 

Aoife stepped back from him and went looking for some of his apparel. He couldn’t go walking about the halls in his gambeson, nor the scantiness of what lay underneath.

“You could say that, yes.” There was an edge of heat and anger in her tone.

“It wasn’t Zevran was it.” Aoife turned at his remark, to see that thunderous expression that Morrigan had described with such aplomb, flicker over his features. She almost laughed.

“No, it wasn’t Zevran. It was Morrigan.”

“Ugh,” Alistair responded with undisguised distaste. “Worse.”

She found what she had been looking for, a pair of loose breeches and a shirt crumpled up into a ball at the bottom of his travel pack. Aoife smiled secretly to herself. They even “packed” their belongings the same way.

“So, may I ask,” he unhitched the last of the ties, sliding the padding over his head and letting it fall to the floor, standing in nothing but an undergarment, “why are you attempting to make _ me _ get dressed when _ we _ are alone together, and would quite obviously both like to be _ un _-dressed, doing something far more enjoyable than talking about Morrigan.” She handed him fresh breeches, which he almost didn’t accept. 

It had taken him several months to believe her when she told him that she very much appreciated the lines of his body as much as he appreciated hers, and he certainly didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered over him now.

“Because I need you to listen to something that Morrigan has to say,” she returned, her eyes running a gamut over his chest before returning to his face, “and I doubt want to be semi-naked while doing that.”

He took the breeches and shirt from her without further hesitation. “Certainly not.” Alistair replied hotly, and followed up with, “Why do I even have to talk to her at all?” The thought of Morrigan seeing him without apparel gave his actions some speed, and he had the breeches on in very quick order.

“Do you trust me?” She asked him. He made a throaty noise of assent, pulling her gently to him again and resting his forehead against hers.

“Of course I trust you.” He murmured, the fingers of one hand caressing the skin at the nape of her neck. “I love you.”

“And I you.” She unwittingly let a huskiness into her voice that skirted too close to the emotions she was trying to keep suppressed. 

Before they could pick up where they had only just recently left off, she cupped his face in both her own hands and kissed him chastely, more chastely than even their first hesitant kiss had been. “Just listen to what she has to say…” Aoife whispered, “and put your shirt on.”

They separated, much to Alistair’s annoyance, and he hastily shuffled the creased shirt over his head. “Fine. But just so you know, it’s coming back off later.” That had sounded better in his head, more suggestive, less…flat. 

He followed her to the door, still partially ajar. Aoife paused, and much to Alistair's confusion, pushed the door shut.

She turned, held his gaze, but kept him at arms-length as he tried to move closer.

“You never have to do anything to prove that you love me, Alistair. You understand that, don’t you?” He blinked with uncertainty.

“I…” He began.

“Because I know you would never have said it if you did not, without a doubt, believe it,” she interrupted. “I don’t need heroic acts or sacrifices from you on that count.” Her face was quite serious, but there were licks of something else pushing at the edges. Fear...hope?

“Love…what’s going on?” It was unlike her to be oblique with him. He reached out and caressed the arm keeping him at bay.

“I…just. I need you to know that you never have to question that I love and trust you entirely. You don’t _ need _ to do anything to prove to me that you feel the same…that’s all.” She finished rather lamely. 

Now he was worried. This was very unlike her. Nevertheless, he let her take him by the hand and lead him from the room.

****

“Riiiight.” Alistair drawled in response to what he saw as Morrigan’s rather convoluted explanation of operation “save the wardens”, which is what he had termed it in his head.

If he was honest, aside from the salient points, he had stopped listening to most of what Morrigan had to say shortly after she started to speak. 

“Soooo…just to recap. You have a ritual that allows you to create a vessel, which the soul of the archdemon will be sucked into when it’s killed, rather than into a Grey Warden. Meaning that neither of us, nor Riordan would need to die in order to vanquish it?” There. That took what? Three seconds to summarise?

Morrigan looked at him askance. “That is the general gist of the matter yes. Well done, Alistair.”

“So why hasn’t it been done already? Seems like a good idea to me.” He replied.

“Were you not _ listening _ to me? The ritual can only be done tonight, and I will need the essence of one already afflicted with the taint in order to make it work.” Morrigan felt like she was talking to a twelve year old. What was she thinking, Alistair _ was _practically a twelve year old. 

“Wait…is this blood magic?” Alistair frowned dangerously.

An inarticulate sound of annoyance crawled from Morrigan’s throat, and she turned towards the owner of the room to vent her frustration.

“I told you I did not think this would go well. Could you not have simply explained this to him yourself? He seems to understand the big words when you speak them!”

“No, Morrigan.” She replied. “If you want Alistair to agree to your plan, you explain it to him yourself. I will not venture an opinion.” Part of Aoife wanted to chuckle at the whole exchange, but that part was smaller than the one that was terrified at what the outcome could be.

“Ah…I am still in the room, just so you know.” Alistair piped up.

“Very well. I will attempt to explain it to you in words of two syllables or less, in keeping, no doubt, with your highest level of mental capacity.” Morrigan heaved in a breath and began again.

“In order to spare you, Aoife, or Riordan from being possessed by the spirit of the archdemon upon its demise, I am required to create a vessel for it to be diverted to. The vessel must be created tonight in accordance with a specific ritual, and will require the participation of one _ recently _ afflicted with the taint…”

“So, either of us two then.” Alistair made an encompassing motion with one hand.

“Yeees, and no.” Dull-witted idiot! “If our illustrious leader were in possession of the particular anatomic peculiarity that I require, then you and I would not be having this conversation. Unfortunately, she does not. However, _ you. do _.” Morrigan spoke the last two words in emphasis, as if to hammer it into his head.

“I do…I do?” Maker’s teeth, could she just not explain it simply?

“Yes Alistair.” Morrigan glanced pointedly at his groin. “_ You _ . _ Do. _”

His face went slack in surprise, and then quite pale, as he involuntarily cupped his hands to his lap for protection.

“Wait…what do you want to do with it?” 

“Well if I wanted to cut it off, I hardly think your lover would be in favour of me petitioning for your permission to do so, now would she?” Morrigan’s frustration with Alistair was almost at tipping point. “_ Do _ be sensible! I know it’s hard, but if you could just _ try _.” 

Despite Aoife’s resolve to not become involved in the conversation, she could see it devolving from here without intervention. “The vessel Morrigan is referring to is a child.” She stated, as bluntly and emotionlessly as she could.

“What?!?!” Alistair exclaimed, springing from his seat, glancing between the two women in the room. “Are you telling me you want me to impregnate Morrigan in some kind of magical sex rite?!?!” To say he looked horrified at the thought was an exercise in understatement.

“Ignoring that after but one night, it could barely be called a child…” Morrigan said, ignoring Alistair’s borderline hysterics, “it will be conceived with the taint, which will call to the spirit of the archdemon more strongly than that of any Grey Warden. At this early stage, it can readily absorb the archdemon’s essence and not perish.” Both Aoife and Alistair shook their heads slightly at her matter-of-fact tone. “The child, when it grows, will possess the soul of an Old God, free from the darkness that corrupts it. The child will not be hurt, only changed.” Morrigan explained again.

“No, noooo, absolutely not!!” It was hard to tell what revolted him more, the thought of sleeping with Morrigan, or having a child with her.

“This is not a complicated task, Alistair.” The exasperated tone in Morrigan’s voice took on a new fervour. “I am not asking you to be a father to this child, I am simply asking you to contribute to its conception. That is all. And in return, the Grey Wardens will have a chance to live where otherwise one of you may die.”

Alistair dragged his eyes from Morrigan and found Aoife’s. But she remained withdrawn.

“Even if I was willing to..do this…and I’m not saying I am…do you really think this is a good idea?” His eyes pleaded with her to give him something, anything that could tell him what she wanted of him.

“No, she does not. But she also does not want to be responsible for consigning either yourself or Riordan to death without...” Morrigan quipped.

“What I do or do not think about the situation is irrelevant.” Aoife interrupted Morrigan tersely. “This choice is yours, Alistair, and whatever decision you make I will support.” Her voice softened as she spoke to him, but she didn’t trust herself to say more. 

Alistair continued to search her face for anything that would point him in the right direction. He didn’t want either of them to die…her to die, but would this…act...drive something between them that couldn’t be fixed, destroying any future they may have in any case? 

He could see something in her eyes, but she would not give him the lead that he desired. She was making this his choice, perhaps the one occasion he dearly wished for her not to do so.

“Wow. Be killed by the archdemon, or sleep with...you.” He didn't even look at Morrigan, but his point was apparent. “How exactly does someone make that kind of choice?” He was stalling, falling back on diversionary humour,

“Rapidly, I would suggest.” Morrigan replied.

Alistair sat quietly for a long time, his warring emotions clear on his face. He would never have made a good politician, he could not lie worth a damn, unless it was covered with humour. Even then, anyone who knew him well could tell a lie from truth.

Aoife watched him process each side of what was an emotionally and morally horrifying problem. He wanted to say no, _ she _ had wanted to say no, and yet the temptation to say yes was so great. They had already sacrificed so much to get this far, was it wrong to want to be a little selfish? 

“Ugh…” Alistair groaned and ran both his hands sharply through his hair. He and Aoife shared one last look between them, and he broke from it first.

“All right. Let’s…just get this over with…before I change…my mind.” He tried to keep the revulsion and bitterness from his voice, but did not succeed. 

Aoife rocked back from it, as if from a blow, but he had already turned from her and did not notice the barb and cut meant for himself alone had found an unintended target.

“Very well. Let us go somewhere more private Alistair. And believe me when I say that you will not hate this quite so much as you believe.” Morrigan’s own tone dripped with amused spite.

“Yet I get the feeling I’m walking into a spider’s nest...a horrible, horrible...spiders nest...just...ergh." He shuddered. "Come on.”

He looked back once before exiting the room. Aoife had folded in on herself, seated on a covered bench, pulling her legs into her chest. She looked so small and alone. He yearned to lock the door behind Morrigan’s retreating form and gather her into his arms, where they would hold on to each other until waking up from whatever Fade hellhole they had somehow become stuck in. 

But he also wanted to be selfish. He didn’t like the idea of living the rest of his life without her. He had little doubt that if Riordan did not strike the final blow against the archdemon, that it would be Aoife’s hand on the sword, not his. 

So he swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of what he was agreeing to do, and followed Morrigan out of the room.


	3. The Ritual

Alistair sloped off down the hall towards his own rooms, not even checking if Morrigan was following him.

“What precisely is this going to involve?” He threw over his shoulder at her, pushing his door open and leaving it for her to close.

“I assume you are not asking me the obvious, otherwise I’d have to seriously question what you two have been doing privately in camp for the last few months.” Morrigan closed the door behind her and locked it. It would not do to be disturbed.

“Hrm, usually I’m the one trying to break the tension with humour. Nice try, you’re not good at it though.” Alistair quipped back, coming to a standstill near the bed and crossing his arms. “Seriously. What is this going to involve.”

“I think the real question is, do you really want to know, Alistair?” Morrigan fixed him with a languid stare and raised eyebrow.

“Probably not,” He replied, holding her gaze. “But I’d like to be at least prepared. You’re not going to...do something...unnatural to me...are you?” He squinted at her. The question seemed a little redundant to him, even as it came out of his mouth. He was going to be...having relations...with Morrigan, that in and of itself was going to be something unnatural for him.

“Why? Would you like me to?” She couldn’t help it, and a sly grin played at the corners of her mouth. He answered with a glare. “Do not worry, Alistair, all that is required of you is to perform the requisite action at the requisite time. Until then, you can just lie on the bed.” She began to peel off a layer of clothing, and Alistair averted his eyes out of unconscious habit.

“Fine. Lie on the bed. Easy enough for the moment.” He sat and fell backwards onto the mattress, arms pillowing his head. There had been so few occasions recently where a bed had even factored into his sleeping arrangements, it could have been made of straw mats and boards, and he would still have thought it delightfully comfortable.

Morrigan began muttering to herself, and movement in his peripheral vision informed him that some kind of ritual practice was taking place. He actively avoided looking in her direction to see what she was doing, as he had more than a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t going to like it. He chose to think of other things until he was required not to.

Unbidden, memories came into his head, the first time he met Aoife... 

Duncan had informed him that one of the prospective new recruits was a Dalish Elf, but he hadn’t actually believed it. Duncan had also not mentioned that  _ she _ was a  _ she _ ...which took him by complete surprise. True to form, he stuttered out some intolerably glib repartee which she seemed to take in good humour. Only later did he find out she had thought him a complete idiot, which did very little for his self-esteem at the time.

It wasn’t until they were out in the wilds preparing for the Joining that he understood why Duncan had chosen her. He had fallen into the trap of assuming that since she was a she, he and the other male recruits would be doing most of the heavy lifting. He got the shock of his life when Aoife leapt headlong at the first Darkspawn to cross their path, grabbed it’s sword arm, bodily twisted to wrap her legs around its neck, and in one fluid movement, brought it to the ground, stabbing it through the face. She was up again just as lithely to disembowel the next one to swing at her. 

That had been a short and furious fight; Alistair had barely gotten his sword out of its sheath. The initiates were eager, he’d given them that. Jory with his massive two handed sword, and Daveth shone with his ability to flank and cut swiftly; they would be a good group if they survived the Joining. He didn’t underestimate any of them after that.

Aoife had proven herself a natural leader early on that outing. While the rest of them would have tried to cut Morrigan down when she appeared to them in the ruins of the Warden’s Hold, only Aoife had stepped up to the apostate (because it was clear Morrigan was an apostate) with little fear to demand the return of the Grey Warden Treaties, their secondary mission, but an important one.

When given the choice to accept the Treaties from Morrigan's mother, Flemeth, and walk away, or attempt to kill them both for being “Witches of the Wild”, Aoife didn’t hesitate in leaving the mages to themselves. A wise decision, as it turned out, for neither Alistair nor she would have made it out of the massacre of Ostagar without their help.

He could not pinpoint the exact moment he began to have feelings for her that were more than just comradery. They’d hauled one another out of enough scrapes by then to trust each other with their lives. He initially thought it was just that, an emotional response to the extraordinary and tense situations in which they were reliant on each other. 

When he realised that this didn’t explain why he didn’t feel the same way about Leliana for example, things became more complicated. He kept these thoughts to himself for a  _ very  _ long time. 

It didn’t matter to him that she was Dalish, or that she was probably a better fighter than he was; they were the only Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, they had to see this to the end together. 

Alistair was not particularly good at talking to women, actually he was downright terrible at talking to women, and he didn’t want to jeopardise their ability to trust and rely on each other by making a meal of it.  It would never have seriously entered his hea d to say anything to her at all, but that in idle conversation they shared about family and home, he asked her if there was anywhere she considered home.

He remembered her answer clearly, which came after a lengthy pause.  _ “I guess my home is with the Grey Wardens now. With you.” _ That had caught him completely off guard, and an awkward moment followed; thankfully then broken by a well timed attack from a small pack of Darkspawn.

“Alistair.” Morrigan snapped at him from quite close. He opened his eyes with a start, not even realising that he had started to drift off.

“What?” He grumbled, turning his head to look at her, and then dearly wishing he hadn’t. “Maker’s teeth, Morrigan!!” He cursed and shied away. Morrigan was naked, except for a small undergarment, and appeared to have a number of petroglyphs and symbols scrawled on her body in what look disturbingly like blood.

“Would you please take your shirt off.” Morrigan stood regarding him with a bored expression.

“Take my shirt off!?!?” He exclaimed, and despite his better judgement, turned back to her. “So you can…” he waved his hands at her body, at a loss for words.

“So I can draw ritual incantations on you in red Lyrium ink?” Morrigan gave him a pitying glance. “No Alistair, you don’t need ritual inscriptions, only I do.” 

“Oh...that’s not blood?” Alistair started pulling the loose shirt up over his head. How prophetic his earlier words to Aoife had been  _ “Fine. But just so you know, it’s coming back off later.” _ Clearly it had not occurred to him that this might be the current situation.

“No, Alistair, I have not inscribed myself with blood.” She came closer to him, holding a bowl before her. He couldn’t figure out where best to look, so compromised by screwing his eyes shut instead. “But I am about to pour some over your head.” He felt the liquid hit his scalp and quickly run over his face and shoulders. If a sound could ever be called ungainly, the one that Alistair made in that moment would be it.

“Aghlrahg!!!!” The strangled noise came from his throat. “Agh, no, no, it’s in my mouth!! Gnrghlrg!” There were spitting noises. “Maker, it tastes salty, Gods no!” To his credit, although he shuddered violently and involuntarily flailed a bit, he did try to remain quite still.

Morrigan sniggered at him, and he braved squinting one eye open against the coating of blood. There was a drizzle that slipped into his eye, but it was not red, and nor did it sting. 

Blinking, he looked down at his hands and chest, which he was surprised, and relieved, to see were unmarked by flowing ichor.

“Salted water, Alistair. You must really try not to be so gullible.” Morrigan sighed, pouring the remaining small amount of water over her own forehead. It flowed over her form, glistening in the torch light. Disturbingly, it did not wash away any of the inked inscription.

Alistair found himself staring unconsciously at her breasts. The were remarkably nicer looking than he had expected, even covered in ink scrawl. 

He wasn’t sure what he expected, because up until this point, he had never actually thought about any part of Morrigan’s anatomy in particular, and certainly not in any sense that leaned towards desiring it.

“Are you going to be able to do this, Alistair?” Morrigan asked him, and he dragged his eyes up to her face, a guilty flush passing over his neck.

“Do what?” He asked thickly.

“Are we back to asking the obvious question again?” She mocked him slightly, but not as much as she usually would. This part of proceedings required him to be amenable to her at least.

“Oh. Well...yes, yes I…” Alistair took a deep breath, stood up and removed what remained of his clothes. “Yes, I am going to be able to do this…” reassuring himself more than her.

“But you’re going to need a little help I think.” Nodded Morrigan gently, pushing him back onto the bed.

Alistair gulped uncomfortably, silently cursed himself, and eventually nodded his assent. “Just...don’t break anything...all right!!” were his final muttered words.


	4. Of Comfort and Company

Gods, what had Alistair agreed to?

The night before they marched for Denerim, the night before they face the archdemon. A night they should have been spending with each other, possibly for the last time. Not that Aoife didn’t rate Riordan’s chance of killing the archdemon, he was a far more experienced Grey Warden than either she or Alistair; but there were no guarantees that it wouldn’t be any one of them to land the final stroke...if indeed they weren’t all killed in the attempt.

For two hours Aoife had sat alone and small on a too large bed with little hope of comfort on the eve of the final battle. She shook herself. She needed to stop this. If she did not believe that they could face down hell itself and still come out alive, how could she expect those who followed her to believe it. 

And she needed them to believe it. 

All of them. 

Right now she needed clarity, some peace, to wash away these fears and thoughts, this loneliness and uncertainty. A cleansing?

There  _ was _ a bath in her room, there were dried herbs in her pack.

A bath then.

******

Nirali emptied the last of the hot water into the bath as Aoife watched from the couch. She found human bathing habits strange. The Dalish only provisioned bathing tubs for the old, infirm or very young, and then only for ritual purposes. Otherwise it was natural lagoons, river or streams. She recalled Leliana’s abject horror at the thought of bathing in a cold river two days North of Lothering, as if somehow the wild were no place for one’s morning ablutions. 

The memory made her smile.

For the Dalish, cleansing was always a ritual of sorts, even if it was just a practical one. Waterfalls were particularly auspicious for meditative ritual cleansing. Aoife loved waterfalls. 

Very occasionally if the clans ventured far south or west enough, hot springs fed by the roiling rivers of fire in the depths provided a welcome relief. 

Cleansing before a hunt was a common Dalish custom. There had not been the means, nor chance prior to Ostagar. Before they had ventured into the Brescilian forest, she thought the timing good, and had collected herbs to this end. Again, time it turned out was not in her favour. 

So, as their travels went on, she had to content herself with finding a little ritual in the practical bathing opportunities when they presented themselves.

“Will that be all, my lady.” Nirali asked, the servant's eyes never lifting higher than the collar-bone of whomever she was addressing.

“Yes, thank you Nirali.” Aoife replied, having given up trying to stop the elves of Arl Eamon’s household from calling her ‘my lady’. 

To them, she was something apart, as all Dalish were to city elves. The marks of Vallaslin, blood writing, that decorated the faces of the clans-people demonstrated a connection to the traditions and beliefs of the elves and their Gods that those in the city and in service could no longer grasp. 

Many city elves were terrified of the Dalish, a people who were fiercely proud of their heritage, seeking always to recover the old ways, and bowing to no one. To Nirali, she was like any other noble or human. Which is not the way it should be.

Nirali bobbed a curtsey and left the room quickly, gathering the remaining pieces of the Aoife’s armour as she left. They would be taken to the armoury to be cleaned and repaired. Arl Eamon had insisted, and she had been too tired to object, especially when Alistair had shown no hesitation in getting out of cleaning his own armour for a change.

Steam rose from the wide stone structure, in which Nirali had anchored several cushions and towels offering protection from the edges of harsh stone. Another confusing human custom. If the bath was meant to be comfortable, why not construct it that way in the first place? And why stone? Why not wood? Why not…no, She was becoming distracted.

Dalish rituals were not ornate affairs, the simplicity of their lives reflected in their faith. There were no candles or incense, no wordy tomes of thanksgiving and hours of preparation. 

That fell to the remote human deities and their messengers in Thedas. Like everything she had observed of the Shemlin, far more complicated than it needed to be.As if by patience and repetition alone, one could find divinity and peace.

Rising from the bed, She took the first of the herbs from its pouch. Dried leaf of Saltbark, herb of Mythal the Protector, the goddess for whom Aoife had received her Vallaslin so many years ago. Filling a jug of water from the bath, She crushed the leaves into it, watching them swirl on the surface before the soaking drenched them and dragged them down.

“For the All-Mother.” She whispered and tipped the water from the jug back into the bath. 

The clear saline scent of the Saltbark caught readily in the steam, quickly filling the room. Fleeting memories of mother’s laughter and father’s quick hands crafting a lyre. Nothing more. They were gone long ago, and she recalled little of them.

The second herb from her pack, much harder to find outside the Dales. Dried Arroweed Root, herb of Andruil the Huntress, the creator of the Way of Three Trees. 

Again Aoife drew a jug of water from the bath, sitting it on the side with the three wizened and twisted roots, breaking one over the jug for each way. “For the  _ Vir Assan _ – fly straight and do not waiver. For the  _ Vir Bor’assan _ – bend but never break. For the _ Vir Adahlen _ – receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness.” She whispered, and on returning the water to the bath, followed with “Together they are stronger than the one.” 

An earthy woodland scent danced between the exalted peaks of Saltbark, and suddenly she was back in the Dales. Among the trees of the forest, the sweet woody odour of bruised Arroweed leaves underfoot as she stalked a lowland deer. The memory passed, quicker than she would have liked.

The third and last herb from Her pack, dried petals of Blooded Fadeflower, the herb of Dirthamen the keeper of secrets and knowledge. He who wandered lost in the Fade, seeking his brother, was rarely honoured among the Dalish.

Crushed Fadeflower, had long been used to grant the user a peaceful sleep. Perhaps it would keep the nightmares at bay for this one night. She set it aside for use at the end, when all else was done.

Testing the bath water with her fingers, She found it not unpleasantly warm considering the amount of steam rising from it. She was about to slip the simple shift she was wearing from her shoulders to step in, when she heard the door click softly open and gently closed again.

There was no time to even turn before Aoife felt two strong arms circle her waist, and a body press close behind her. 

Even above the steam borne redolence of the bathwater, she recognised the particular blend of metal polish and wood that seemed ingrained into Alistair’s skin and hair.

“It’s done.” He muttered into her shoulder, the side of his head pressed fast up against hers. “Maker forgive me, it’s done.”

“Alistair?” She wanted to turn, but he held her tightly, not answering. Knowing how involved human rituals were, she had not expected his return that evening. 

Aoife raised a hand to caress the back of his head, his face still firmly buried in her shoulder; the other she reached around to place on his hip, as much as she could do to embrace him. The coarseness of his short hair met the palm of one hand, at which he murmured appreciatively; the softness of bare skin met the other.

Aoife blinked.

“Alistair?” This time her question as met with a noise of acknowledgement. “Are you naked?” He paused and went still.

“Um…yes?” His reply muffled against her back.

“Did you walk… _ naked _ …from your rooms to my rooms?” She queried.

“Well…I didn’t  _ walk  _ exactly.” This reply was a little clearer, as he raised his head slightly.

“Fine…did you  _ make your way rapidly _ …naked…from your rooms to my rooms down a hallway that’s likely to be frequented by someone, maybe even someone you  _ know _ , at this hour of the evening?”

“Um…yes... Yes I did.” He finally raised his head enough for her to receive some marginal eye contact over her shoulder. 

Aoife held Alistairs gaze for a few minutes, watching the blush crawl up his face over the thought of an acquaintance, anyone, seeing him dash naked  _ anywhere _ , let alone into her rooms.

“See, that’s why I love you.” He said. “You can make me feel more deeply embarrassed about running around hallways naked than what I just did with Morrigan.” It was bravado, she heard his voice catch over Morrigan’s name; but if it was what he needed, then she wasn’t going to take that away from him.

Instead she laughed. The sound rang through the room and her whole body shook with it. Alistair chuckled, his arms loosening, finally allowing her to turn and face him.

“Maker’s breath but you’re beautiful.” He murmured, bushing loose strands of her short hair back behind her ears.

“Am I indeed?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, gently teasing in good humour.

“Oh yes, yes you are.  _ Ar lath ma vhenan _ .” He whispered to her in elvish, the one phrase he knew, the only one he really needed.

“ _ Ir tel’him, ma vhenan _ .” She replied, knowing he did not understand, and kissed him lightly on the nose.

“That bath looks wonderfully inviting.” Alistair noted, and she felt like there was a pretence of lasciviousness in it. “And I am already naked, as you have so eloquently pointed out.”

“I’m certainly hopeful that it will be an excellent bath. But I have prepared it for cleaning myself, not for…” She made a motion with her hand to encompass the meaning of their embrace, his intent. 

Alistair feigned a long suffering look of disappointment, but it did not take much for that pretence to crumble. 

He faced her with an honest expression of need that had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with comfort. “To be truthful, I feel like cleansing would be a good idea. I…” He faltered and took a breath. “I don’t want tonight to be filled with memories of…I don’t want to think about it or …I hate the practicality of it…no, that’s not it. Practicality is the only thing that made it bearable. I…I don’t want it to ever…damage us…I don’t want you to think of…”

Aoife placed a hand against his lips, and he stopped talking.

“Alistair. The choice was yours to make.” the look he gave her stood between disbelief and chagrin. “If the choice had been mine, if somehow me sleeping with Morrigan would have given you, Riordan and I the chance to come out of this alive, I would have made the same choice that you did, and for the same reasons.” His gaze on her faltered, and he could see the Chantry bred shame rise up in him.

“Stop.” Her voice was curt, and he started slightly.

“Stop?” Alistair echoed, confused.

“You should not be ashamed, not over this. You have done nothing to be ashamed of.” Her hand caressed his cheek

“I don’t want to make any apology for being selfish...but selflessness is the better virtue.” He almost looked away, but then forced himself to stare into her eyes. They were clear, and gave him strength

“That’s the Chantry talking, not you.” She admonished gently. “We have already given so much. When the armies of Ferelden return to their homes and their lives, we will still be fighting.” Her voice caught unintentionally, and he finished the next sentence for her, as if their thoughts were one. 

“We will fight the Darkspawn until we die by their hand. And I would rather live those years with you at my side than not at all.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. “We stay together. No matter what happens.” He echoed the words she had spoken to him after their first night together.

“No matter what.” She repeated. “Now,” she sighed and gently poked him in the ribs, “…get in the bath, you smell like sweat and oily metal.”

“I thought you liked that smell.” He protested half-heartedly as she pushed him away towards the water.

“I like  _ you _ , Alistair, so sometimes I have to put up with your smells.” She retorted.

“Oh, well that’s just lovely, isn’t it…Oh, why are there cushions and towels in the bath…and what have you put in the water? It smells like…like forests near the sea. Ah, yes, this is lovely and warm…and now I can see why there are cushions in the bath, it’s much softer this way…who would have thought…” She let him prattle on, only interrupting him to throw the soap his way and insist he scrub himself clean.

The only break in his nattering came when Aoife disrobed and joined him. 

Glancing up as she stepped over the lip of the bath, she caught the delightedly appreciative eyes he was running over her. He had a sudden thought as he caught her gaze, and wondered if he had inadvertently just ruined the whole bathing ritual.

“Wait…I am allowed to  _ look _ , aren’t I? I mean, with this cleansing thing…Am I…allowed to…look?” the pitch of his voice rose to a comical height, and she couldn’t help but laugh softly at him.

“Yes, Alistair, you are allowed to look.”

“Oh! Well that’s a relief. I like looking…” Alistair paused, “erm wait…that came out wrong.” He continued, slightly abashed.

“Well, while you’re busy looking, you aren’t cleansing.” She leaned closer to him, and he leaned away…were they allowed to touch? She sniffed his hair. “You still smell like weapon oil.” And proceeded to attack his head with the soap.

A lot of water ended up on the floor, but by the time the bath had cooled to tepid, they had scrubbed themselves, and each other as clean as was likely to be. She still thought he smelled slightly of weapon oil, he insisted he did not…and besides which, it wasn’t as if the Darkspawn would care if he smelled of weapon oil when he was killing them. 

At which point Aoife remarked that if he would rather go out to find some Darkspawn to kill than retire to bed, that was entirely his own choice. Alistair quickly picked up what remained of the soap and gave himself another thorough going over. 

*****

The scents of woodlands and the sea had faded as the water cooled, and now they lingered only as faint passages of memory lingering about the corners of the room. The fire had burned low, bright embers all that remained of the hardwood logs placed there earlier in the day. They sat curled up together covered in dry towels by the fire, finding a warm and quiet peace in each other’s company.

The Fadeflower petals had sat forgotten by the side of the bath, as the water grew too cold to give them much strength. But what water could not carry, fire certainly could.

“Are these Andraste’s Grace?” Alistair asked, picking one up from the bowl she was running her hand through.

“That is what humans call them, yes. The Dalish call them Blooded Fadeflower. We crush the dried petals in hot water to bring on a peaceful sleep.” She absently kissed his hand as his fingers caressed her own.

“Does…does it work against the nightmares.” He whispered. They had both been having them with increasing frequency lately.

“That is my hope.” She smiled, catching the petal he let fall back into the bowl.

“Hrm…we’ll need to send someone for more hot water then.” Alistair muttered. The thought of moving further afield than the bed did not excite his interest over much.

“No,” She assured him, “there is life yet in the fire that can be harnessed.”

She leaned forward, and with a deft flick of the wrist, scattered the petals across the remaining bright embers of light. 

Each petal blazed briefly as heat came to it and was consumed in hungry licks of flame. A peppering of flared light played over the two of them, and a scent released into the air quite unlike anything she had expected.

Fadeflowers were delicate and light, the perfume of them crushed in hot water was uplifting and gentle. 

That same flower, consumed by fire, released a wave of delicate sweetness undercut as if with a bolt of cracked lightning. It rolled over them in a wave, sweeping aside the veil that separated them from the unknown; the realm of Dirthamen, keeper of secrets and knowledge.


	5. The Fade - Part 1

Alistair awkwardly trudged through the low door, trying to stretch his cramped muscles. Trust the dwarves to have the hardest beds in Thedas. How could they ever get used to sleeping on stone? Made no sense to him. 

The Legion fighters insisted it was his old age that made him unadaptable. Old age his foot. He was only in his early fifties, for Maker’s sake.

“Any word?” He asked the same question on rising as he had for the last three weeks.

“No, nothing yet, Warden.” Czison of the Legion answered him without looking up from his work. The dwarf was repairing scale plate, while others ate, sparred or dozed in the flickering light of torches and filtered daylight. The Legion had been encamped at Cardash Thaig for the last two months, pushing back against the Darkspawn that constantly roved the depths.

Since the last Blight, and in addition to Kal'Hirol, reclaimed decades earlier, the Dwarves had claimed back some of the roads closest to Orzammar; Aeducan and Ortan Thaigs were now established settlements again, and had been for the last 15 years. 

This was due, in no small part, to the small circle of magi that had taken up residence in Orzammar, outside the reach of the Templars or the Chantry. 

That had certainly caused some ructions between the High Chantry in Denerim and the Crown of Orzammar, but the dwarves had always done what was best for the dwarves, and reclaiming the Deep Roads was a dream too tempting for even the most unadventurous dwarf to not take pause at.

The Chantry tried appealing to the Wardens for assistance, as the only surfacers actually welcome in the Stone Halls. But that had come to nothing. The Wardens fought the Darkspawn, the Archdemon and the Blight, they didn’t fight with their allies. 

Aoife had been very clear on that count, when petitioned by the High Chantress, the Templar Grand Master, and Queen Anora herself. No doubt they had thought to catch her between the three of them and apply enough pressure to ensure an agreement. Alistair had watched on from the side-lines, shaking his head. Had the last Blight taught them nothing about her, about them?

He smiled to himself, thinking of her again.

She was magnificent, and for reasons that he had never understood, she loved him.  _ Still _ loved him, even after all these years. A lifetime spent together, re-building the Grey Wardens in Ferelden; establishing a solid base in Amaranthine and actively seeking out those of great mind and invention to assist them; devising better defences and early warning systems against the Darkspawn and seeing them implemented across the Kingdom; taking back Ostagar, cleansing it, honouring it and rebuilding its fortifications against a future Blight; the formation of the Grey Guard, a fighting force of those who wished to serve the Grey Wardens against the Darkspawn, many of whom, in time, may choose to join the Warden’s ranks; the rebellion against Weisshaupt and restoration of the Warden Order; renewed treaties with the ancient allies of the Wardens, and newer treaties with the Ash Warriors, the Chasind; they had even sent word back to Sten in Par Vollen, a proposed treaty with the Qunari...he was still thinking about it.

All this had they devised together, argued over together, achieved  _ together _ .

Those outside their ranks would always look to her, as the Warden who had slain the archdemon and survived, as the Hero of Ferelden; but those within knew they led together. 

Alistair had not even noticed it was happening, the small and subtle ways she would maneuver him into making decisions with conviction, concocting situations where other Wardens and the Guards observed their conversations, discussions and even arguments, so they could see him as her equal. 

The one axiom constantly returned, “ _ We stay together, no matter what happens _ .”

So they had come, finally, to the times when the nights spent gripped by taint driven nightmares outstripped those not by ten fold. The Deep Roads called to them both. 

Their final days. 

They had hoped to go as they had lived; together. Only his need to stop in Highever on their journey west had seen him fall behind her. Thus here he was, three weeks in the Deep Roads awaiting her return.

The Legion of the Dead had pushed the Darkspawn back past Cardash Thaig, and were holding solidly in a large span of territory between the Crossroads and the Dead Trenches. But unless a rallying and constant force could be established, it would only be a matter of time before the Darkspawn pushed them back again. They needed something stalwart, something powerful to aid them.

House Dace, determined to claim back their Thaig which was still well within the grasp of the Darkspawn, sent its sons and daughters in search of the remains of Anvil of the Void, of ways to remake the golems, without fully understanding what that would cost. 

None of them had ever returned. 

They then petitioned the Assembly to send more expeditions, and there were many voices that lamented the loss of the golems and the ability to make them. 

Alistair arrived to hear news that she had proposed an alternative. Wake up the golems that were left. Give them autonomy, give them agency and purpose, broker a treaty between them and the dwarves. 

In their journey through the Deep Roads three decades past, they had come across enough of them, and he did not doubt for one moment that it was something that could be achieved. There was a circle of magi here now, Shale had come back here after the blight. If the dwarven Thaigs could be regained without sacrificing the souls of any to the Anvil, then she could find that way.

Aoife had set forth with Shale, members of House Dace and a number of mages from the Orazammar Circle of Magi. He had wanted to set off directly after them, but sense had over-ruled. She may have headed towards the Dead Trenches, she may not have. He could wander for months in the Deep Roads and never find her. The sensible course was to wait. 

Over the years, he had come to terms with “the sensible course” when is was the best option.

_ We stay together, no matter what happens _ . Echoed in his mind. He reached for a mug to fill with ale, and a plate for whatever meat was turning in the spit. He thought best not to ask the origins, given how they were far from the surface.

“How’d you sleep?” Czison asked, and Alistair missed the slight smirk in his voice.

“Hard? How am I supposed to have slept?” Alistair rubbed a crick in his neck.

“I’d say peacefully,” Czison replied, “being a Warden though, I doubt that is a possibility at this stage of your life”

“Oh, just my luck,” Alistair returned, “I get the _ funny _ Legionnaire to converse with today.”

Czison laughed quietly, pushing a bodkin through leather and reattaching a scale plate to the armour backing.

“Oh, we’re all funny down here, Warden.” He replied, at which Alistair snorted in disbelief, making his way to a communal table repurposed from a fallen wall slab.

“Ah, I see you’re awake then.” Oghren greeted him as Alistair sat to eat. The dwarf certainly hadn’t changed much in 30 years. Perhaps gone a little to fat, although it was genuinely hard to tell with dwarves, and his russet hair faded towards blond. But Oghren was still as bullheaded, abrasive, jocular, and obversely loyal as he always had been.

“I’m not sure I even slept. Is it just dwarven stubborness that leads you to make beds out of rock, or is it some kind of dwarven play on words?” Alistair prodded his lower back, and fidgeted about to get it to settle.

“Bed’s out of rock?... What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Oghren spoke between drafts of dwarven ale, of which he no longer had much of an opinion.  _ “Weak as Bronto piss! I’ve been sodding spoilt on damn surfacer beer.” _ he had complained more than once over the intervening years.

“While I can see how my devilish sense of humour and wit may confuse you; my bed is, literally, a rock, I’d hardly be making jokes about it.”

“Why the hell are you sleeping on a sodding rock? Or are you too namby pamby to curl yourself up in one of the cots?” Oghren sounded deeply annoyed, but then Oghren mostly always sounded deeply annoyed.

“What?! What are you talking about?” Alistair grumbled. “Namby pamby?! I’m no the one who thought it was a brilliant idea to make beds out slabs of damn stone!” He waved his hand towards the room in which he’d slept. Oghren squinted suspiciously in that direction, and didn’t fail to notice the barely suppressed smile on Czison’s face. 

A few seconds later, he burst into uncontrollable howls of rough laughter, setting off most of the other dwarves who had been in on the joke.

Alistair looked around blankly for a few minutes until it finally sunk in that for the last three weeks, they had obviously been pulling his leg.

“Oh. Well that’s just lovely, isn’t it!” But he honestly couldn’t be angry. If he’d thought of it, and been in their position, he probably would have tried it on too. “So what the hell was I sleeping on?”

Czison shrugged. “Table probably. Who knows, been a long time since it was abandoned”

Sweet Maker! Alistair could just see Aoife’s quirked eyebrow and gently mocking smile now in his mind’s eye.

“Just do me a favour and don’t go spreading that around, ok?” He muttered to Oghren, who winked at him. Oddly, that was not as reassuring as it ought to have been. “When’d you get in, anyway?”

“Few hours ago.” Oghren belched, and took a mouthful of food. “Traffic through the Cross is runnin’ well. Never thought I’d see us openin’ up so much of the Deep Road’s again. At this rate we might hit sodding Kal Sharock before Michaelmas!”

“You sure they want to be hit?” Alistair leaned back and stretched pointedly. Oghren ignored him.

“Ah, who the hell knows. Probably a pack of sodding inbred ‘spawn lovers by now. If we can’t bring em back, we can always clear em out.” He grinned, and downed another draft of beer. “Heard about this crazy plan of your missus. Wakin’ up the golems. Figured I would drop by, see what the news is.” It was not a subtle segue, but Oghren thought subtlety was a dirty word.

“Ha! Well, you’ve probably heard more through gossip than me. They headed out three weeks ago, haven’t heard anything back since.” Alistair took a long drink. He had to admit it, Oghren was right. Dwarven beef was no good stout.

“And you ain’t worried?” Oghren eyed him sideways.

“ ‘Course I’m bloody worried,” Alistair belched, earning him an approving nod from his breakfast companion, “but there’s no use belting out after her. First, I could get lost.” admiration was short lived and Oghren snorted derisively, as if fears of such things were hardly important. “Second, you know she can look after herself, so do I, so does she. Any attempt I might make to even clumsily come to any kind of rescue is unlikely to end well.” He said it in self deprecating humour, which Oghren completely missed, perhaps deliberately so.

“Well, that’s true at least. You are soddin’ clumsy.”

“So sorry that we can’t all be as elegant as dwarves.” Alistair retorted in mock offense and obvious sarcasm. Oghren merely chuckled.

There was a disturbance near the Thaig watch-towers, and a steady, if not measured, thrum of movement. Before any of them could see the source of the noise, a runner appeared on the rise closest to the encampment. A lithe young dwarf, new to the Legion, her tattoos still dark and crisp. She approached Oghren directly.

“They said you were gone from Caridan’s Crossroads, I hoped to find you here!” She beamed, which was somewhat unbecoming for one of the Legion of the Dead...beaming was not in their job description.

“Aye, well here I am. What’d you want?” Oghren could have been talking to the King of Orzammar himself, and be equally as graceless.

“We got word from Kardol’s regiment, they’re launching an assault on Bownammer and want any spare regiments to assist.”

“Bownammer?!” Oghren exclaimed. “Is he completely sodding mad?” Those around them had looked up sharply at the mention of their ancient House in the Dead Trenches. “It’ll be swarming with Darkspawn.”

“Probably, but he got word the Grey Warden’s brought a phalanx of golems out of Bemotan Thaig. She took it five days ago, and they say it was so thoroughly routed the ground is two foot deep in Darkspawn dead. Three Emissary Alpha’s couldn’t hold it. And she’s on her way to Bownammer.”

“She’s heading to where?” Alistair piped up.

“Bownammer,” Oghren grumbled, “Dead Trenches.”

“Right, well, best get my kit on.” Alistair hopped to his feet, the act only slightly marred by a pull in his muscles.

“Are you mad too then?” Oghren threw at him. Around them, members of the Legion were already donning repaired armour and assessing their numbers.

“Probably, but if that’s where the action is, that’s where we’re going. Grey Wardens, killing Darkspawn, remember?” Alistair grinned at him and started strapping on his own gear.

“And you’re ordering me about?” Oghren pretended to be incredulous.

“I believe I am the senior Warden on the ground here, so yes. And since you are also a Grey Warden, that would be another yes. When did you start turning your nose up at giving some Darkspawn a good slapping?”

“Senior Grey Warden my arse.” Oghren muttered. “Who’s going to hold this sodding Thaig if we all go merrily traipsing off on the Deep Roads then?” He asked.

“I believe that’s where we come in.” A new voice joined the conversation, rough, gravelly and with a hint of timbre.

“Shale!” Alistair exclaimed. The rough hewn golem crested the rise to join the camp, shoulders heavy with long shards of clear crystal that danced with hidden light, and fists coursing with filaments of deep red flickering fire. Shale seemed well pleased with Alistair's reaction.

“Ah! It arrived then. Good. She expressed concern for It.” Shale nodded, and Alistair thought he caught the hint of satisfaction in the golem’s voice. “I said not to worry over It.”

“Oh...Well that was nice of you.” Alistair was slightly flattered to think that Shale had come around to the idea that he was a capable warrior.

“Indeed. I said that if It couldn’t make It’s own way from Highever to Orzammar in one piece, It wouldn’t be of much use in the Deep Roads anyway.”

“Yes. Thank you very much.” Alistair replied, his expectations once again brought back down to the ground with a thud.

“So who’s this _ We _ you’re talking about then.” Oghren sniffed

“Well, that would be myself, and them.” Shale inclined their head towards the main thoroughfare which ran not far from the Legion’s camp. 

Along the ruined road of the Thaig a group of mismatched golems trudged, most of them far larger than Shale, and carved with marks of the Houses that had once owned them. A few carried enormous weapons of their own, Axes and Mauls for the most part. “A motley crew, I’ll grant you, but happy enough to be awake, and capable enough to defend my Thaig.”

Alistair could swear that there was pride in Shale’s tone, and if the golem had been able to smile, he had no doubt they would be. 

“ _ Your  _ Thaig, is it?” Oghren grumbled.

“Yes.  _ My _ Thaig. It is where I am from, and if circumstances work out the way they should do, where I will stay.” Shale dismissed him and went about deploying the golems.

“Damn fool idea, waking up the golems. As if one of them weren’t bad enough.” Oghren muttered to himself, quietly nevertheless, so Shale couldn’t overhear him. “And sodding Grey Wardens, I should have just pitched in with the Legion instead.”

“Stop grumbling, you knew what you were in for when you joined us. Now get your kit together, we have death to deal to some Darkspawn.” Alistair ordered tersely, but not without humour.

“All right, all right, keep your hair on, human.” Oghren drained his tankard without further objection and picked up Yusaris where it was propped against the stone. “Hungry, my sweet?” He crooned to it in a slightly perturbing manner.

Aoife had gifted the greatsword to Oghren after Final Battle of the Fifth Blight. 

It was the blade that had slain the dragon, and ended the archdemon’s power over the Darkspawn horde. If she had been anyone else, that blade would have meant more than any other weapon in existence, and held coveted place in any warrior’s heart. 

Queen Anora had asked for it to adorn the wall above her throne, and the Chantry and Templars had made similar requests. But that was not Aoife’s nature. 

Yusaris was a well balanced and crafted weapon for use in battle. She would not see it wasted hanging on a wall, a trinket of veneration, when it could yet be of use. When Oghren had expressed a desire to return to Orzammar, she had made it her parting gift to him, on condition that he make use of it, not hang it on a wall or keep it in a trunk. On that count, she would have been assured. Oghren was generally as practical minded about these things as she was.

True to his word, Yusaris worked for its board and keep, and never did it need sharpening. Oghren carried it with him into the Deep Roads, and even back out to Amaranthine years later, when he submitted to the Joining and became a Grey Warden. That he talked to it was unique. That he talked to it lovingly was disturbing.

“Hurry up! Legion’s heading out.” Alistair called to him, and they both grabbed what little of their belongings remained and trotted to join the end of the line marching silently to Bownammer.


	6. The Fade - Part 2

The air this close to the Dead Trenches was thick and hot, every breath was tinged with fire, but by the _ Gods _ was it good to be alive! Ahead of them, a phalanx of golems in the van pushed darkspawn back across a wide slab toppled between two bridges, while those in the middle split and harried the flanks.

Kardol and the Legion troops at his command stood to left flank back from the bridge, making ground on the ‘spawn spewing forth from gutters and holes in the walls. The mages took the rear, advancing cautiously, making the most of their ranged attacks; a few tailing the flanking forces of the dwarves. 

Slightly forward of them, what archers were able, hammered the ‘spawn with arrows edged in ice.

Aoife was on the right flank, two golems, those of house Dace still walking, and the few members of the Grey Guard that had chosen to accompany them into the Deep Roads converged on her position, where some of the fighting was the most furious. She held the gaping maw of a half collapsed tunnel where once a door into the Deep had hung. 

The ‘spawn were thick here, they had already downed three ogres, and there were others still in the back lines. But the tunnel was narrow enough to funnel them all into the killing ground. What numbers the ‘spawn had, kept pouring forth, but were now forced to climb over the mounting corpses of their own dead, slowing them down and gave the aggressors the advantage.

“You sure you want to do this!?” She bellowed over the gap, seeing Kardol withdraw from front line to direct a rear action.

“We’ve never had this much of a chance, We take it now and hold it, they’ll not take it back from us!” A short spear flew from his hand, taking a ‘spawn between the eyes and toppling it back into the magma filled trench.

“They’ll not stop for you, Kardol! The golems are pushing for the remains of the Anvil!” She called back, and grunted, catching the dull butt of an axe in the side. She dealt swiftly with the culprit, the flurried movement of two blades dragging ‘spawn flesh from bone. 

Aoife chanced a look at the golem phalanx, they had almost completely taken the second bridge. Sweet Gods but what she could have done with them in the Blight, at Denerim, or in Orlais; Kal'Hirol! A laugh escaped her throat as she turned back to the melee. The ‘spawn were still coming, and she could feel the burn of satisfaction building within her at each take down. If she pushed that, the burn would engulf her, and her rage would channel itself into Bezerkering. 

Not yet, though, not yet. There were still too many ‘spawn, she needed to whittle their numbers down just a little more.

A familiar tingle raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and her grin widened. She slit one last ‘spawn from neck to navel and bellowed out a withdrawal. Mages and dwarves heaved back from the line of pressing ‘spawn. Golems cared not for her command and continued their work. 

The blinding flash dropped from the air into the middle of the massing ‘spawn, billowing outward in lines of spirit fire that finally converged on one dazzling explosion of Holy Smite. 

As the light died, the front line of ‘spawn was now back well beyond the mouth of the tunnel, an air of disappointment hung over the two golems in the flank, the ‘spawn in their hands having turned to dust. The respite would be brief, as she could hear more pushing forward, but she had yet enough time to turn and greet their reinforcements.

Alistair drew his blade and shucked Duncan’s shield into place, readying for the next charge. His eyes were still faintly alight with the dregs of Templar power he had just laid down in front of her.

“Bloody show off!” She cursed him in jest.

“Good to know I can still impress you, _ lethellan _ !” He called back, stepping towards her, seeing the battle lust in her eyes and knowing how close she was to unleashing her own brand of hell on the ‘spawn.

“Every damn day, _ vhenan _; every damn day.” She grinned wolfishly at him, now within striking distance. 

Throwing out an arm, she grabbed the lip of of his breastplate, pulling him roughly towards her. He went willingly, seeking her mouth as readily as she sought his. Their lips crashed together, as they kissed with the heat of battle in their blood.

“Thought you’d got lost!” She jibed him as they parted.

“What, and miss all this fun!? Surely you jest love.” He eyed off her neck, muttering a grumble of annoyance that his plate armour would not let him within biting distance of it. 

The sound sank into her core and stoked a fire. Gods but she could take him right here on the battlefield. How the hells he had put up with her all these years, and still not only loved her, but found her attractive, she would never understand. All she knew was that they would stay together, no matter what happened. 

They had survived everything this world had thrown at them so far.

“You two get a sodding room!” Oghren bellowed and jabbed Alistair in the side, pointing back toward the advancing darkspawn line on this flank.

******

They fought solidly until the flanking lines of darkspawn finally broke, scattering back into the deeps. Regrouping with Kardol, they advanced down the centre line, pushing the mages back to the rear, following in the wake of the golems in the van. 

An hour more and they had pushed to the third bridge, the chance to take Bownammer so close the Legion could taste it.

The battle continued along the third bridge, hard fought and frenetic. The first of the golems fell, but the ‘spawn had paid richly for that single victory. 

This would be their final push, defeat this darkspawn line and they would win this ground. 

Holding it would be tomorrow’s challenge, winning it was for today.

******

“So, what do you say, _ vhenan _! Any regrets?!” She bantered as they threw back ‘spawn after ‘spawn that came within their reach.

“Not a single bloody one!” He shouted, laughing as he did so.

“What? Not one?!” She replied, disbelieving. “Not Weisshaupt?”

“Ha!” he laughed. Gods no. putting his fist into the First Warden’s face on the steps of the great hall at Weisshaupt was still one of the defining moments of his life. “Hells no! If only I could go back and do that again.” He struck a grenlock aside and made a bee-line for the emissary wading through the dying mass.

“Cailan’s armour, then!” She called out.

“No!” He slammed the shield into the emissary, temporarily staggering it and giving him time to deliver a crippling blow. “Dead half-brother’s armour really had no appeal.”

“Mind you, we could have got a pretty penny for it.” She grunted in reply, pushing a ‘spawn off her blades and over the side of a trench.

“Ah! Letting Anora have it seemed like the best thing to do!”

What she thought about that was eloquently delivered in the form of a snort.

“You could have been King if you wanted though, no regrets there?” She took down a ‘spawn on Alistair’s flank, and they found themselves back to back, fighting in a circle formation against the ‘spawn that just kept pressing in.

“Never in a million years without you, _ lethellan _ .” He replied, his voice tinged with a gentling sweetness.

“I thought you _ didn’t _ do that because of me.” She returned, circling again and dealing another series of death-blows.

“Maybe only a little.” He smiled, cracking his sword through his opponent’s rib-cage. “I knew life was certainly going to be less fun with a throne permanently attached to my arse.”

Her laughter barked out at him and she lunged to hamstring the incoming Ogre which swept its own soldiers aside to get to them. Alistair braced his shield against the incoming blow, angling his blade for an upper-cut counter attack. The ogre fell with a whining groan, and they were finally able to breath. The battle still raged a short distance from their position.

“And Skyhold.” She stared at him, bent and breathing heavily, one hand pressed into her side.

“I’ve never regretted Skyhold. Not once.” He murmured thickly, and a fire burned deep in his eyes. “Not even what you had to do to get me out of there.” 

Aoife righted herself, flipping her blades around to flick gore from them. 

Alistair thrust his blade down into an accommodating corpse, freeing his hand to caress her face. “What about you, _lethellan?_ Regrets?”

Her face took on that lopsided grin that he had come to cherish. “Only that we have so little time left, _ vhenan _.” Her voice was clear, but with an edge of sorrow. “I could live all the years of my life over again with you, Alistair Theirin; every single damn one.” For the second time that day, she hooked her fingers over the lip of his breastplate and pulled him into a kiss.

The bellow of charging Hurlocks rang out across the void, and they turned to see the ‘spawn forces had attempted to regroup. Alistair palmed his sword and looked towards the oncoming battle.

“First we put these blighted monstrosities down, and then...”

“We show each other our appreciation.” She finished for him, grinning. He returned that thought to her with a lupine growl and loped towards the line of fighters. 

She turned as he did, feeling a roar of battle born joy filling her lungs.

In those seconds before it burst from her throat, she observed an elf, standing without apparent fear or concern in the midst of the fracas. He was barefaced and bald, no mark of Vallaslin graced his features. The battle scene separated itself from her and time slowed as she watched.

“What...?” echoed languidly from her lips, as the sounds of battle faded out of earshot. At her word, the unmarked elf...a mage by his staff, turned his eyes sharply on her. Confusion clouded his features, and she turned from him to observe the dimming scene before her.

Alistair...somehow...how? Somehow they were caught in a pocket of the Fade...Alistair, she needed to pull him out...but where had they been, what was their anchor? A fire...a fire and...a bath. The night before they marched for Denerim…

“_ Alistair...Stop _!” 

*****

“_ Alistair...Stop _.” Aoife’s voice was fainter, and younger. It lay across the coarse war cry that he saw tearing from her lips as she gathered herself to run...and then...the scene slipped sideways, and he watched, disconnected from his own form that sprang forward into the melee along-side her, his face contorted with a joyous rage.

A memory, long ago, the feeling of her pressed against him covered in nothing more than linen towels, the scent of salt, woodlands...flowers cut by burnt lightning.

He watched as the battle in front of him slowed and grew indistinct. He saw the line of Hurlocks falling before them, his shield and blade, her twin short swords...but that old memory...it pulled him back...he could feel her against him now, her breath on his neck, her arms wrapped in his own.

The fire was almost out, the last few embers in the grate dulled by the ash of the Fadeflower thrown onto them in the distant past. The din of the battle fell from his ears, and the soft silence of her room in Redcliffe castle took its place. 

But this was so long ago. The night before they marched for Denerim...a lifetime of memories stood between that time and this...a lifetime...that slowly began to fade...the Fade. 

He sighed, pulling his arms tight around her, and she responded with a gentle noise of affection. 

A lifetime in an hourglass, and now they would live it all again.

Gods how he loved this woman, and how he knew she loved him. No matter that the memories of their future were drifting into the back of his mind, they would make it, they would win, and they would stay together, no matter what happened.

“Take me to bed, _ lethellan _.” Alistair murmured in her ear, a shiver running over his arms as sensation rolled through him.

Their love making lasted long into the early morning hours. Sweet and tender; two bodies entwined in lingering touches and soft caresses, building again and again to waves of gentle ecstasy; subsiding into languid bliss and gloriously dreamless sleep. 

The dawn light found them wreathed in each other’s arms, blanketed by a serenely hushed peace that hung undissipated in the air around them.

Nirali felt it course over her, as she came to wake Aoife in the morning, abating the shock at finding her not alone. Some of the scent of the Fadeflower yet lingered, and gave the servant a feeling of contentment she had long forgotten.


	7. The Dawn

Arl Eamon rose early. The sun had barely crested the horizon, and there was a long march ahead if they wanted to get to Denerim in time. He needed to talk to Alistair and had not had the chance since the boy had summarily ruled himself out of taking the Throne.

Eamon pondered his own actions from Alistair’s youth. It had been a mistake, packing his...nephew...yes, he was going to concede to that...off to the Chantry as a boy, he wished he could go back and change that at least. If he had listened to his better instincts and kept the boy at Redcliffe, Alistair could have been brought up properly and been prepared for this eventuality. Eamon told himself that he could not possibly have foreseen this, but always there was that voice that played in the back of his head. A King should have an heir and a spare. Alistair was the elder of Maric’s sons, and when he was born, they had all hardly behaved as decorously as they should.

Maric had been embarrassingly delighted when the lad had been born, and held little mind who his mother was. Queen Rowan had not yet been able to conceive, but then, neither had any of Maric’s other mistresses, and it had been the subject of much palace gossip. 

Maric's marriage had been one of political convenience, as most marriages within Royal families were. The Arls of Redcliffe were staunch allies to Maric throughout the struggle to reclaim the throne, and a powerful house in its own right. Eamon’s sister, Rowan had been the natural choice for an alliance with the Royal House, and so it was arranged. 

When Alistair was born, the King had been overjoyed, and relieved that he was at least capable of fathering a child. One family trait that Maric, Cailan and Alistair all had in common, they none of them saw the benefit in letting pomp and circumstance outweigh practicality. Maric needed an heir. In his eyes, he now had one. Never mind that the child was illegitimate. What did it matter if his blood wasn’t wholly blue, he could be raised to be a King. It had taken a great deal of convincing for them to sway Maric from this. Even Loghain, someone Maric would have expected to understand that greatness did not reside in the blood, advised strongly against this course of action.

Instead they came to a compromise. Maric would drop this absurd notion of making his illegitimate bastard his heir, and Alistair would be fostered to Eamon, who would see to his upbringing. He was, after all, still the son of a King.

Three years later Cailan had been born. Maric now had the legitimate heir he wanted, and that the ruling class would accept. Alistair was not necessarily forgotten, but he was certainly no longer forefront in the King’s thoughts. Still, Eamon continued to raise Alistair as a young noble, despite his sister’s misgivings. He always counselled Rowan that until Maric had at least two heirs, Alistair may some day prove to be important. The King never fathered another child, and Eamon's resolve to keep Alistair in reserve faded as time wore on. 

Eventually his capitulation came not from the distant disapproval of his sister in Denerim, but from his new Orlesian wife, with whom he was utterly besotted.

His decision to send Alistair off to be raised by the Chantry, and likely then trained as a Templar, was one he regretted almost from the moment he made it; but like many who made bad decisions and stuck with them, he hoped it would turn out for the best.

Obviously it had not. 

In seeking to rectify that, Eamon had pushed Alistair at the Throne almost as soon as he had been well and able to do so, regardless of how the boy felt about it. True, Alistair was a Grey Warden, but he was also of the blood. The boy’s claim, regardless now of the legitimacy of his birth, was the strongest they had. 

But, just like Maric, Alistair did not for one moment believe that noble blood made one noble, or even qualified one to be noble. They had argued about this in the weeks during Eamon’s recovery. But Alistair was more his father’s son than Cailan had been. Where the younger of the brothers could well be swayed by a skilfully couched argument and his wife’s certainties, Alistair held very firmly to the notion that he was where he wanted to be and what his capabilities were. 

He had also developed the very effective strategy of palming off serious questions and discussions with humour and deliberate misunderstanding. Attempting to talk to Alistair about anything of import was usually an exercise in frustration, and had the circumstances allowed, Eamon would have been impressed at the level of manipulation his nephew was capable of. For all that he presented to the world as yet another rock-headed young man with a sword and the capability of using it, Alistair was very adept at not being dragged into doing things he did not want to do, the Blight notwithstanding.

Eamon stepped out into the second floor hall, making for the rooms he had assigned to Alistair, which were close by his own. There was no response to his knock, and the door easily slid ajar when pushed, as if it had been closed in a hurry and not properly caught the latch. The fire was long cold, and did not look like it had been tended at all through the night. The bed appeared to have been slept in, however, and he nodded. Most likely the boy had suffered nightmares of which he knew the Grey Wardens were subject, and had found other employment for his time. He would look for him in the main hall, where most of the household and officers would break their fast before the march.

Eamon closed Alistair’s door behind him and continued towards the stairs, barely registering the servants passing him by, even when one uncharacteristically met his eyes with a smile. Rounding a corner, the Arl almost collided with the very person he was seeking, half dressed in a towel, exiting the rooms given over to his compatriot. The lad dragged with him from the room a scent of wild woodland after a storm, and looked remarkably cleaner than Eamon had seen lately.

“Eamon!” Alistair blinked, surprised, but seemingly not embarrassed by the circumstances of the encounter. 

“Alistair…” Eamon frowned and looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow.

Before either of them could continue, the door beside Alistair opened once more and a voice called out.

“Hey! Amulet.” followed by a thrown object that Alistair caught deftly with the hand not already occupied in keeping the towel around his waist.

“Ah, yes, useful thing that. Thank you, _ lethallan _ .” He casually slipped the chain over his head.

“Go and put some clothes on before someone sees you, you impossible man!” Her voice was light, and remarkably full of laughter, considering the ultimate threat they would very soon be facing.

“Too late I’m afraid, love.” His grin bore traces of sheepishness, but Eamon got the impression that Alistair was neither bothered nor ashamed of being caught in this situation.

A head and shift covered shoulder popped from behind the door-frame.

“Oh. Your grace. Good morning.” The smile Aoife threw Eamon lit her whole face, which took him aback slightly. She turned back to the half clothed miscreant in the hallway and said “It could have been worse.” before snatching a kiss and disappearing back inside her room.

“Worse? How?” Alistair exclaimed and threw a mock scowl her way. Whatever her answer had been, it was not verbal, and Alistair quickly withdrew his question. “Yes, well. I guess we can be thankful for small mercies.” Which was greeted with laughter. 

The door closed, Alistair moved to step around the Arl back towards his rooms, and presumably, his clothing.

“Alistair...” Eamon began, following him.

“Hrm?” Alistair hummed in return, pushing his own door open and entering after the briefest of pauses. The Arl did not notice him assiduously avoid looking at the bed, instead making directly for the scattering of items that had obviously been upended from his travelling pack the night previous.

“I’d ask if you mind me making a pertinent remark, but considering…” He did not know how to complete that sentence and left it in an awkward silence. 

Alistair didn’t even seem to register.

“Considering?” Finding an adequate set of underclothes, breeches and overshirt, he carelessly stripped off the towel and began to dress. 

Eamon frowned. Alistair was never usually this unconscious of his social situation, nor ever comfortable with it.

“Alistair, may I ask you how long you...how long has...the two of you…” He was becoming frustrated at his own inability to couch his question in the proper manner. Alistair saved him the hassle, glancing curiously up at his uncle before responding.

“Her and I? Quite some time.” He pulled the shirt deftly over his head and went searching for an adequate pair of boots.

“And do you think that’s...appropriate.” Eamon could feel admonishment in his voice, but struggled to keep it under control.

“Because she’s Dalish, or because we’re unmarried?” He queried, pausing slightly as if remembering something, before proceeding to haul serviceable footwear from under a bench. 

The Arl did not respond, there had been a slightly scathing reprimand in Alistair’s tone.

Alistair fell back into a chair and regarded his uncle with an unfamiliarly assured gaze. Eamon was startled to realise that this was the same look Maric used to have when he thought his advisors were over-complicating matters.

“You know, before last night, I probably would have agreed with you on some level. I don’t know, call it residual Chantry guilt, whatever." He pushed that thought aside with a wave of his hand. "But to answer your question, there’s nothing about it that strikes me as inappropriate at all. We don’t need anyone’s permission to love each other, and trust me, Eamon, it is love. I’m  _ not  _ my father.” There was a steel in that final remark that made Eamon flinch slightly. 

“Then let me be blunt." The elder man stated. "Is  _ she _ the reason you do not wish to take on the duty of your father’s Throne?” He had to ask the question, part of him was still sure he could talk Alistair around, even if he was thinking with his nether-regions rather than his head.

“Anora’s Throne you mean?” Alistair shook his head and chuckled. “Eamon, that warden is the reason for a lot of things. She’s the reason the Grey Wardens are still in this fight, the reason the treaties are being honoured, the reason your family is still alive and Redcliffe still standing.” Eamon’s eye twitched slightly. He did not need to be reminded of what he owed her. “On a personal level, she’s the reason I get up in the morning, the reason I have been able to keep going since Ostagar, the reason I’ve stopped feeling guilty about things I can not change, the reason…” he sighed, “the reason I am able to have this conversation with you rather than avoiding the subject altogether; but she is  _ not _ the reason I refuse to rule Ferelden.” Eamon looked slightly disbelieving. “I don’t want to be King because I would be completely rubbish at it. I’m a Grey Warden, Eamon, I  _ like being _ a Grey Warden, it’s something I’m good at and a calling I respect. Put me on a Throne, and I doubt I would fare better than Cailan did. To tell you truly, it was no great secret that Anora was the one really running the Kingdom.” He dropped his gaze to his boots and began to pull them on.

“You would have advisors to help you, Alistair.” Eamon counselled.

“Cailan had advisors, and the advantage of spending his whole life preparing to be King. Still didn’t help him any. I may be of Maric’s blood, but that doesn’t mean I’d be any good at ruling his kingdom. Be practical. At best you’d get 30 years out of me before the taint drives me completely insane, and there are far more useful things I will be doing with that time than keeping a seat warm in the Palace while advisors fuss over the important stuff.”

Who was this boy...this  _ man _ ? This was an Alistair he had never seen before. His words and thoughts had cohesive form and strength behind them. He knew what he wanted, would not be moved from that, and was not deflecting conversation away from it.

Alistair finished tying his boots on and stood with a careful ease and confidence.

“Nobility is not a birthright, Eamon, despite what people might have us think. And frankly, I’m not sure monarchy is a particularly good model for governance anyway.” At that Eamon certainly did raise an eyebrow. “Anora’s the daughter of a farm-hand turned legendary warrior...turned...treacherous power monger, granted...but she’s far better at it than Cailan was, or I would ever be. The job’s hers unless anyone else wants to challenge her for it, and I certainly don’t plan to.”

“Alistair…” Eamon tried again, but was interrupted. Alistair clasped his hands to his uncle’s shoulders and smiled wryly at him.

“I’m not going to change my mind. What I’ve got is what I want, and I’m happy with it. Well, except the bit about the Blight, but we can’t have everything I guess. Besides which, this is hardly the time for it. We have a long march ahead and an archdemon to slay...unless we tarry here too long and it decides to go home before we get there. Which would be very annoying, because it’s pretty much the Grey Warden’s  _ raison d'etre _ at the moment.” He smiled at Eamon and made a move towards the door.

The Arl followed his nephew into the hall where the two wardens, now fully clothed, fell into easy step beside one another. 

Eamon had to admit something had changed in both of them. The doom and worry that seemed to hang like a pall over Redcliffe and it’s assembled army appeared to no longer touch them...and indeed, he felt his own mood lift being in their company. 

“Breakfast, love?” Alistair said, casually resting a hand on her waist.

“Gods yes,  _ vhenan _ , fairly sure I could eat the kitchen bare.” was Aoife’s reply, weaving her fingers between his as they walked

“Ha, I’d fight you for that, and Riordan’s already had a head start on us I expect.” He returned. “I’ll have to get down to the armoury sharpish afterwards. If only Plate were as easy to strap on as Drakescale.

“Mmm. Make sure they check the buckles your gardbrace, they’re a bit worn.”

“Good point, last thing we need is for it to go flying off the first time I get flattened by an Ogre.” He kissed her hair as they came to the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the main hall, neither of them making a move to separate.

“Or a Hurlock.” She teased.

“I have never once been flattened by a Hurlock.” Alistair responded indignantly.

“Well...not yet, but I’m pretty sure I remember that you will be at some point.” She affectionately jabbed him in the side with her elbow and he answered with a resounding bark of laughter. 

As confusing as her last comment was, the Arl of Redcliffe began to have a feeling that they were going to win this fight. For no reason that he could fully understand, he felt a certainty over this as he had not felt over anything in years. 

As he watched the two of them enter the hall, and move among those breaking their fast, their quiet confidence and calm soothed fears and he saw the fog of grim desperation slowly lift. Hope took firm root in the gathered host, assuring the men and women of this assembled force that the day would yet be won.

END


End file.
